


Say It

by plaisirparkway



Series: Show Me [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Oral Sex, but its there, dom!Geralt, maybe? like it's not overt, sub!Reader, thigh riding, very very vague and canon compliant ref to sexual assault, virgin!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaisirparkway/pseuds/plaisirparkway
Summary: Geralt pushes back from the table and crooks a finger. You get to your feet, and he watches as you come around to stand in front of him, just where he points to the floor.“Take the dress off.”Or: Geralt has shown you a little, but you want much more.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & You, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Series: Show Me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826374
Comments: 20
Kudos: 324
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Say It

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic is also on Tumblr, same username, plaisirparkway, [same fic title!](https://plaisirparkway.tumblr.com/post/623381971836583936/say-it-geralt-of-rivia-x-freader) this is part two of “Show Me.” Frankly, it got a little away from me in content, so unfortunately for me, lol, there will likely be a third part. 
> 
> (just a mini disclaimed that virginity is, indeed, a construct, but for the purposes of this fic, and as a trope, I mean p in v sex)

He’s a man of few words, but that doesn’t surprise you. 

He barely spoke at all the entire time he plowed through three-fourths of your stew pot. You’d insisted. It was obvious he'd not had a good meal in a while, and you had enough food to feed you both for long enough. And you would be alright, assuming the snows cleared within a few days and you could go back to setting traps. The winters were predictability lean, but nothing you weren’t prepared for. 

You’d pressed on, pulling answers from him. He gave them up with molasses-like eagerness. Where he’d been going, where he was headed. That was about it. 

He sits back and rests a hand on his stomach, so evidently replete it makes you laugh. 

“Next, you’ll be dropping right off to sleep.” 

His smile seems begrudging. “I could.” 

The silence has begun to feel less nervous, more calm. 

“I...meant what I said, you know,” you say, cautiously. “That I’d like you to show me. What it can be.” You pause, meeting his lion eyes head-on. “How it can be better.” 

He sighs. “And I’ve told you that what has passed between us already was a mistake.” 

You speak slowly, winding a cloth through your fingers, so you have something to do, something to look at. “After Father died, a boy that lives down the road asked me to marry him. I said no. I may yet get another proposal, but it will likely be the last. I’ll say no then too.” 

You glance up to find him gazing at you, his head cocked slightly. You realized that it’d been a long time since you’d said something so personal to someone else. Probably since your father. Maybe not even then.

“I’m very lucky to have my life,” you go on. “This house. And my craft. Come spring, I’ll have more than enough money to buy a new horse of my own, if I like. I can get by on my own. I’m not interested in tethering myself to some silly boy who thinks he can come along and take what’s mine. Simply because someone pronounces us married.” 

You take a sharp breath, then swallow down the emotion bubbling against your throat. _ A good girl _ they’d said. How you’d make some man very happy, being his quiet wife and bearing his children and suffering his anger with a smile. “But soon that’s going to make me strange. And no man will marry me then. Not from this village anyway. So, the way I see it. If I’m going to be the strange woman, on the edge of town, with my potions and my weaving and no man to make me  _ legitimate _ , then I may as well have a witcher teach me about bodily pleasures. That’s just strange enough to match, I would think.” 

You blink at him, willing away some of the wetness that’s gathered in your eyes. He meets your gaze for several beats, so still you begin to understand that he's really _ not quite human _ , after all. 

“Please, Geralt,” you say, your voice gone hoarse and thready. “I want to understand. I think...what you did to me when you touched me, it felt good. More than good, even. And I made you feel good too. I want more of that. Please.” 

He shifts in his seat. “Don’t do that. Don’t beg.” 

You sniff, dashing at the tears that threaten to streak your cheeks. “I know. It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

“No,” he says, frowning. “It makes me want to fuck you.”

You jolt, surprised, and the tears feel like a distant memory. “Really?”

He grunts. “This is what I mean. Your sweet begging makes me hard. The way your eyes have gone soft with tears. Part of me likes that too. You shouldn’t have your first pleasures with a man who likes for you to beg.” 

“What do you think it should be, then?” you say, crossing your arms and legs. You immediately perk up, uncrossing both so you can lean closer across the table. “What was your first like?”

“Short,” he says, sounding aggrieved. You circle a finger in the air, a gesture for him to go on. He sighs, shifts again and holds up a hand. “Alright. The woman with whom I first had sex was...kind and patient. I owe her great debt. The woman who  _ taught _ me to have sex was a debauched courtsean who put me through my paces. It's because of her that I know all that I know. She helped me...figure out some things.” 

“Your begging thing.” 

He tips his head, agreeing. “It would not be fair to teach you about sex, or the kind of sex I enjoy. It shouldn’t be your earliest instruction.” 

“And if I disagree?” 

“You’re too ignorant to know the difference.” 

You sneer. “I’m inexperienced. Not stupid. If you tried to hurt me, I’d fight you. Is that what you’d do? You’d hurt me? You’d make me do things I didn’t want to do?”

He pauses, leveling his gaze at you. His lips curl up just a little, but not enough to match your own expression. “Yes.” He heaved a great sigh then. “And no.” 

It only takes you a second to puzzle it out. “Yes, you’d...hurt me? But you wouldn’t make me do things I don’t want to do.” 

“Sometimes, pain is a good thing,” he says simply. 

Your mind flashes to hot coals. _ Don’t touch _ , you’d been told, over and over as a child.  _ You’ll hurt yourself _ . Until one day you had. And it  _ had _ hurt. It had hurt you so badly, you’d cried. Your hand had been bandaged and tended to for a week.

But for a fraction of a second, that burn had been the  _ sweetest _ feeling in the world. 

“I think...I think I understand,” you say finally. “And I still want to. I still want you.” With a clap of your hands as though the matter were settled, you gaze at him. “How do we begin?”

* * *

Geralt looks at your brave face for a long moment. Too long, as you squirm under his gaze. A mouse pinned by the tail. He hadn’t meant to do this. To do any of this. He hadn’t meant to be sat here, smelling your virgin cunt flush with desire. It was too much to bear. 

He spends his days and nights-- _ his life _ \--hunting monsters. Killing the things that bump around in the dark. The things that have no conscience about the havoc they wreak, the lives they take. It is only in the course of this work that he’s ever met the world’s real monsters. He wishes the things he kills were the worst of the monsters that walk the world. 

The worst walk on two legs and call each other _ brother _ and forget that women are their sisters when it suits. Who let the need to feel powerful masquerade as desire. Who take. And take. And take. 

It took him two blows to kill his first monster. 

It never took him two blows again. 

And now you flit about and twist everything inside him. Stolen his head with the way you’d asked for him, asked for him to touch you. It has been too long since he’d enjoyed a woman’s body and he had used yours as hard as he dared. 

So, how can he not feel like those men, given the things that he wants to do to you? How he wants to make you hurt for him and cry for him and teach you all the horrible things he enjoys. And yet, after all that's already passed, you look to him and ask for more. 

If you were the same in this way, perhaps he has a duty to help you along. But if you aren’t, then he still has a duty to keep you safe, for the next person. For yourself. 

“How do you want to begin?” he asks finally. 

You fidget, gaze cast all over before it comes back to him. “I liked the kissing part. Can we do more of the kissing part?”

His cock raged behind his pants. The combination of wanting to do much more than kiss, and the sweet way you ask is intoxicating. 

Geralt pushes back from the table and crooks a finger. You get to your feet, and he watches as you come around to stand in front of him, just where he points to the floor. 

“Take the dress off.” 

* * *

You sigh. You like this part too. The part that leaves no room for error. He tells you to take off the dress. So you take off the dress. Simple. 

You shrug it off your shoulders and when he holds out a hand, you drape the fabric over his palm. It’s only then that you realize how naked you are. 

In the first split second, you thought it would be lonely. To be naked and standing there while he looked at you. He leans forward to rest his elbow on his knees. He looks at you so fiercely, it's almost an angry expression. Your body prickles under his gaze, crackling like the fire behind you. There is no room to feel lonely. He’s so  _ here _ with you, no matter how very different your state of dress is. 

He slides the fabric back and forth between his palms. It looks so much less in hands, and for the barest hint of a second, you wonder how it was you’d been so bold as to put that on and call it a dress. 

“You’re so good,” he murmured. “I didn’t even have to tell you to stand still.” 

It’s barely praise, but even so, you warm in the face of it. With careful hands, he folds the fabric up and lays it on the table, next to your empty dishes. When that’s done, he beckons you closer with both hands. Grabbing you at the hips, he steers you onto his lap. On the one hand it feels natural: He leads so thoroughly, there’s no awkwardness. He arranges your legs around his, and brings you down so you can feel how hard he is between your thighs. 

On the other hands it’s so dizzyingly novel you have to catch your breath. As you loop your arms around his neck, it brings you so close to him, so close to his wild eyes that your heart beats the runaway beat of a drum. 

He holds you fast at the hips, but then he trails his fingers over the beginning swell of your backside. 

You swallow thickly. “Can we do the kissing part now?”

There is almost a smile at the corner of his lips. “We can.” 

You can feel yourself hesitating. The first time he’d kissed you, your first kiss ever, you’d been caught up in passion and bravado and need. It had felt as if it was something he’d taken. Something you’d wanted to give, yes, but something he’d taken all the same. But now he’s waiting for you. To lean in, to touch your mouth to his. 

You do, softly at first. He kisses you back...but never too much. As you kiss and lick and bite, you realize that he’s letting you play. Letting you discover. To see what you like and figure out what pleases him too. You part his lips with your tongue, swipe it just inside his bottom lip. His ensuing sound, the tiniest umph of pleasure makes you lean in for more. 

One hand leaves your hip and slides up the side of your body to cup your breast in his palm. You know. You know he’s going to touch your nipple and yet, you jerk in surprise when he tugs it slightly, and moan into his mouth. The motion drags you just a little against his hardness and that makes you moan again, louder. 

He breaks away, lips swollen and pink from your attention. 

“You like that.” 

You rock again and nod almost miserably, bending to kiss him more. Geralt leans away a little so you can’t catch his mouth. 

“Again,” he demands. 

You move your hips and the pleasure layers on top of itself. With expert hands, he shifts you until he bears the brunt of your weight on just one wide thigh. “Again,” he repeats, and when you obey, the groan the slides out of you is louder still and unstoppable. 

You put a hand to your mouth and look at him with wide eyes. He tells you to lift up a little and you rise up. You have gone so ridiculously slick inside that even two of his fingers are able to work inside of you with only a little effort. He spreads your wetness about, sliding his fingers across that especially sensitive nub. A slight smirk crosses his lips as you jump against the sensation. 

He holds your gaze as he lifts his wet fingers to his mouth. He licks you off of one and the grunt you make makes his smirk widen. 

“Did you just--just taste me? From there?”

“I did,” he says, a little smugly. “And I intend to do it again.” 

“What is it like? Can I...is it strange if I try it?”

His groan is massive, and you feel the bulge in his pants leap against your thigh. “You’re not real.” 

Without any warning, he shoves his finger into your mouth, brushing against your tongue and teeth. You lap as delicately as you can, tasting yourself, and his skin underneath. 

You begin to understand how things can go. How things can build and build until two people cannot say no to one another. Because as you look at him, as you taste him, you can’t help but rock against his thigh, over and over, the friction taking you back to that place where the only thing you care about is your pleasure. 

And you watch him enjoy watching you. It’s in the way he adds another finger to your mouth and slowly slides them in and out. His lids droop low over his eyes. 

“Look at you,” he says, in more of that tone you’ve come to love. It’s a sweet blend of admonishment and pride. “Look at how bad you need this. Does it feel good?”

You nod, unable to stop the movement of your hips. 

“Use your words,” Geralt chides. 

“Gods, yes,” you manage and you don’t know if you want him to stop talking or to keep talking.

“It feels so good because you’re a desperate girl. You’re going to bring yourself off on my leg like a fucking animal.” 

“No,” you say, your hips still moving. You can hear how wet you are. But you do, you do desperately want what he’s offering, it just feels like so much, so soon, your head gone foggy with his voice and his commands and the taught flex of his muscle against the warm wet vee between your legs. 

“No?” he says and there’s an edge of surprise and amusement to his tone. He grabs you at the hips, stilling you even as you struggle to move more. He tenses his thigh even more: it hardens against you. 

“Wait, I--you--I--” you stutter and stumble over your words. 

“That must not be what you meant, hmm?” he says, in a voice that is somehow soft and sweet and chiding. 

“No,” you say, but you’re nodding your head frantically, “I meant--I want--” 

Geralt’s cat’s eyes flash with something you have no name for, but that makes your stomach flip. “You want to come.” 

“Yes,” you say in a breathy rush. 

“Go on then. Say it.” 

You stare at him, confused and throbbing. “You want me to...say it.” 

His stare is fierce, but his mouth lifts in an almost smile. “For two reasons. First. You should learn to ask for what you want. And second,” he pauses, pulling you back down against his thigh. The steady hold he has on you (the rasp of his palms against your skin, the flex of his fingers as he digs into your flesh) brings your hips into a roll that makes your pleasure spark bright and new and hot. 

He goes on, his gaze sliding over your face as you moan, your nails curling into his shoulders. “If you were mine to keep, I’d make you say it all the time. Ask me for that and more, just to watch your mouth shape the words. Command it if you think you can. Beg me.” 

“Please, Geralt, it’s going to happen again.” 

He stops you again, and the sound that comes out of you is unlike any you’ve made before. 

“Say it.” 

You try to sound strong, you do. But it’s a quiet whisper when you say: “Geralt, please. I want to come.” 

He says something under his breath. You can’t catch the words but you can taste the desperation of it as he rises to his feet, lifts you in his arms, and kisses you hard. You’re heading toward the bed. He drops you with little aplomb. 

“I used my hand before,” he says and you nod. “You might’ve used my thigh this time,” he says, and points to the wet spot evident against his pants. “I’m going to show you how it feels for a man to use his mouth on you.” 

You were going to die. 

Geralt lowers himself to his knees and slides his hands up from your ankles. They skate over your calves and the insides of your knees and part your thighs. Out of habit or some grasping at propriety or a strange kind of embarrassment, you go to close your legs. His gaze flicks up to you, hot and frustrated. He presses harder with his hands to show you  _ it's an impossibility _ . 

“I’m going to look,” he says, voice coarse. “Because I want to and because I can. Because you’re mine to look at. Because I want to see your wet, pink cunt. Say that too.” 

“Say what?” you reply with a dry throat. 

“Cunt.” 

“No!” You reply. It sounds  _ awful _ . A word you  _ know _ you shouldn’t say. 

“If you say no to me again, I’ll turn you over my knee and beat bruises into your skin.” 

“You wouldn’t!” you cry. 

“I might,” he says slowly. “I watched your pussy enjoy the idea of it. I could.” 

You stare at one another for a long moment. You summon every scrap of courage you’ve got, spurred on by the needful tension in your body that only he can relieve. “Will you please make me come, Geralt?” The words shudder out with nervousness, but you manage. “Will you use your mouth on my cunt?”

He grunts, lowers his face and licks such a wide, strong swath up your center that you’re almost certain that death is, indeed, coming for you. You cry out and try to back away but he only yanks you closer. Pushes his tongue deeper, tastes you. He laps and kisses and his mouth closes down on that special spot, that spot he’d touched before, the one that made you see the night stars in your eyes. 

The effect is the same. The sound out of your throat is the sound of an animal. A desperate girl. You come, back bowing, Geralt grunting between your thighs and a thousand pinpricks of pleasure rushing over your skin from your toes through every strand of hair. 

When it’s faded, you look up at him. He’s gotten to his knees on the bed, his chest is rising and falling with something close anger, but not. He’s straining the front of his pants.

“Are you going to do it now? Are you going to put it inside me?” 

His expression shifts, something peculiar passing over his features. 

“You think you can take my cock in your cunt? Do you think you’ve earned it?”

Impossibly, you feel yourself tighten again, your body wet even as your mouth goes dry. Slowly (how can he move so  _ slowly _ !) Geralt crawls up your body, speaking all the while. 

“Do you know the things I might like to do to you before we can even begin to consider that? How I might want to taste you again and again? Watch you come on my hand once more? How I might like to see the look of you, with your throat stretched around me? Perhaps you’d still like to keep your maidenhood for some future lover. Or the idiot destined to be your husband. Maybe you’d like me to fuck you the ass instead.”

He settles with his hardness pressed against you and his elbows braced on either side of you. You’re so close, the fabric of his shirt brushes lightly against your nipples which sends sensation through you; errant sparks. His mouth hovers near yours, your breath turning to one. When you speak your lips brush. 

“Are you going to show me that, too?” 

You watch the thoughts cross his face, a million different things you’ll never dream of catching. You couldn’t possibly. “Everything, girl. I think I’ll show you everything.” 

His kiss, this time, is slow.


End file.
